


i get a kick every time i see you (standing there before me)

by tosca1390



Category: The Crown (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:48:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28143366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tosca1390/pseuds/tosca1390
Summary: The coach door closes, but she barely hears it over the crowd cheering. She looks out the window as the coach begins to move, taking her and Philip – herhusband- back to Buckingham Palace. For a moment, she can’t catch her breath.Then, Philip’s hand closes over hers as it rests on her thigh.“Darling,” he murmurs, his breath warm against her chilled ear and throat. “Having second thoughts already?”
Relationships: Elizabeth II of the United Kingdom/Philip Duke of Edinburgh
Comments: 9
Kudos: 68
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	i get a kick every time i see you (standing there before me)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [triplesalto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/triplesalto/gifts).



> I really hope you enjoy this little gift, triplesalto! Many thanks to my beta reader. Happy Yuletide!

-

“Christ, how much dress is there?” Philip says, shaking his head. 

Elizabeth lets out a breath as she leans back against the coach bench. Her ears ring with the sounds of cheers, of bells, of the boys’ choir. The adrenaline is fading and she can feel the November chill against her skin and the weight of the tiara against the crown of her head. She sets her bouquet in her lap and leans down to arrange her train around the floor of the coach. 

Philip’s hand joins hers, aiding in the rustle and shift of fabric. She smooths down the ivory silk, palms catching on the seed pearls and embroidery, distracted by the look of his hand so near. His hands are long-fingered, broad across, strong. She knows there are calluses from his naval work. Now, she will be familiar with all parts of him, not just his hands, his lips, the drop of his hair against his brow. 

“I think it’s all right, now,” she breathes out, sitting up. 

The coach door closes, but she barely hears it over the crowd cheering. She looks out the window as the coach begins to move, taking her and Philip – her _husband_ \- back to Buckingham Palace. For a moment, she can’t catch her breath. 

Then, Philip’s hand closes over hers as it rests on her thigh. 

“Darling,” he murmurs, his breath warm against her chilled ear and throat. “Having second thoughts already?”

She turns to look at him, meeting his warm gaze. During the entire ceremony, she had felt the weight of his eyes on her. His confidence, his certainty, his boldness – it centers her and also keeps her just slightly off-balance. 

“Of course not,” she says, smiling faintly. This is not her public performative smile – this is just for him. 

“Fine time to change your mind, if it was,” he teases, stroking his thumb over the back of her hand. 

A shiver divorced from the November chill slips down her spine. She remembers the stolen kiss from yesterday, the firm way he holds her waist, pulls her close. Suddenly all she wants in the world is to be alone with him, in ways she’s never been permitted to be. This sensation, the warm coiling in the pit of her belly, the flush under her skin, the curl of her toes – this is why she picked Philip, not Porchey or any of those other mousey aristocrats her mother pushed at her. She wants this, wants him. 

“Too late now,” she quips before turning her face to the window of the coach, her mouth stretching into a gracious smile. She lifts her hand to wave, flicking her wrist as they roll past the crowds, framed by London’s grey skies and its rebuilding skyline. Two years ago, all was war. Now, the country has peace, and she has Philip. 

Next to her, Philip chuckles. He keeps his hand in hers the whole way to the Palace. The press of his fingers on her skin makes it easy to keep smiling. 

-

After the official photos, and the wedding breakfast, and waving from the balcony, it’s a relief to take off the wedding dress. As beautiful as Elizabeth feels in it, it’s quite a bit of fabric to carry around for hours on end. She changes into the mist blue dress and jacket for their trip to Broadlands, glancing around one of the only bedrooms she’s known. This is the last time she’ll be here, just as she is. This is a room for a teenage girl, and now she’s a wife. 

“Your Royal Highness?”

Ms. McDonald’s soft voice catches her off guard. Elizabeth meets her eyes in the floor-length mirror, flushing slightly. 

“Does it all look right?” 

Elizabeth glances at herself briefly. “Yes, thank you,” she says briskly. The sunlight is fading, the train is waiting. Still, she hears the low buzz of the crowds outside. It feels similar to VE Day, though the crowd was less exhausted and more purely jubilant, she thinks. 

How odd, to be so interested in her life, her marriage! It comes with being the heir presumptive, of course. Still, she finds herself, as she had so often during this whirlwind process, wondering how much of her marriage belongs to the country, rather than to her and Philip. 

A bridge to cross years down the line, when accession seems more likely, surely. 

There is a knock on the door, and Elizabeth blinks as her mother enters, still in her wedding outfit, minus the hat. 

“Lilibet, they’re ready for you,” Mummy says crisply, a thin warm smile on her face. 

Mummy, who didn’t like Philip. Mummy, who had pushed Porchey on her. Elizabeth sets her face into pleasant stillness and nods. “Yes, of course,” she murmurs. 

They walk through the halls together, the palace chilly and humming with noise. Some guests are still carousing at the invitation of the King, but most of the invited crowd is outside, waiting to send her and Philip off in the carriage to Waterloo station. 

“I do wish you weren’t travelling all the way to Hampshire tonight,” her mother says as they descend a flight of stairs. “You and Philip could have easily spent the night in town before heading to Birkhall.”

“We like Broadlands,” is all Elizabeth says. She’s had this disagreement with her mother multiple times in the last few months leading up to the wedding, and she doesn’t want to relitigate it now. 

Her mother sighs under her breath. Elizabeth, however, finds her breath catch as she sees Philip at the bottom of the stairs, his mouth curling in a small smirk. He’s still in his uniform, and has added his cap as well. The line of his body, the bigness of him even in the cavernous entryway – a smile twitches on her lips. 

As she and her mother step off the stairs, he bows neatly to the Queen, and then reaches out to Elizabeth. “Ready, darling?”

“Yes,” she says, impressed at the steadiness of her voice. She leans in to kiss her mother’s cheek and takes Philip’s hand in hers. 

“Damned thrilled to get you alone soon,” Philip murmurs under the press and thrum of the crowds as the carriage sets off. 

Elizabeth looks at him and can’t help but blush. “Philip – “ she murmurs, glancing back at the coachmen sitting behind them.

“No one can hear me, darling,” he says with a wink. “And even if they did, they would understand. Man on his wedding night, after all.”

Shaking her head with a scandalized smile, she raises her arm and begins to wave as they pass the filled sidewalks. The November chill cuts through her blue dress, but Philip’s hand lands on her thigh as he waves his other hand to the crowds. Now, all she can think about is being alone, with him, with no one to disrupt or chaperone, his hands everywhere, the fall of his hair against her skin - 

It’s all she can do to keep waving. 

-

The first time Elizabeth and Philip are truly well and alone on their wedding day is in their train car as they steam towards Hampshire. 

Elizabeth sets her purse down on one of the cushioned seats, facing away from Philip. As she unbuttons her coat and slides it off, laying it on the back of the seat, she can feel his eyes on her. Her neck flushes. 

The train sways faintly, the city lights fading away into the soft country darkness. Her lady-in-waiting and Mrs. MacDonald are one car away. She shouldn’t think about that. There is a ring on her finger and there were vows spoken between them before God and that congregation, and she can be alone with her husband. 

Her husband! 

In the space of a breath, Philip is behind her. His hands skim up over her arms, resting on her shoulders. The warmth of him is a shock even through her dress. She presses her lips together, leaning back into his chest. 

“Hello,” he murmurs, lowering his mouth to her ear. 

She shivers as his lips brush her skin. “Hello,” she says, breathless. 

“Haven’t had a chance to properly say hello all day,” he says, kissing her throat. 

Turning in his arms, she rests her hands on his chest, right below the medals at his breast. “I believe the wedding vows were the hello you are looking for,” she says pertly. 

Philip grins, ducking his head. Having doffed his hat, his hair falls into his brow as he leans down to kiss her. His hands slide over her arms, shoulders, and spine, resting at the small of her back. She tucks right into the circle of his arms, head tilted back to receive his kiss. 

This isn’t the tentative kisses of courtship or the deeper, stolen kisses when Margaret was playing “chaperone” (and helpfully keeping out of sight). This is possession. His tongue slides along her bottom lip and when she parts her lips, she can taste the champagne from the wedding breakfast on his tongue. Her fingers flex into his coat as his hands press her even closer. The blood rushes from her head and she wonders, quite irrationally, if she will swoon. She never has before, not even in the midst of the Blitz, but today, her wedding day – her wedding _night_ \- 

“Elizabeth,” he murmurs, their mouths parting. He kisses her jaw as he guides her to the seats opposite where she dropped her purse. His hand skims over her bottom and her eyes fly open as she jumps in spite of herself, a small squeak escaping her throat. He hums in amusement and pulls her into a seat. Her legs end up over his lap as he curls an arm around her waist and rests one hand on her thigh. 

“Hartnell really stitched you into this,” he says wryly, leaning back and assessing her frankly. 

She feels every inch of where they are pressed together as she laughs. Tight to the hips, the mist-blue dress flares into soft pleats at the skirt. “You’re exaggerating,” she says, tucking her fingers into his jacket lapels. 

“Truly, you’ve been just a mess of fabric all day,” he mutters, hand stroking over her thigh, rustling her skirt. Her toes curl in her pumps and she wets her lips. 

“Didn’t you like it?” she asks dryly. 

He grins at her, a shock of dark blonde hair falling across his brow. “You looked beautiful, darling. But you have to admit, you and the wedding cake looked quite alike.”

“Philip!” she says, laughing again. 

Unapologetic, he leans in and kisses her, swallowing her laughter with the fervor of his lips. She closes her eyes and sinks into the kiss, anticipating the slide of his hand under her skirt. He could. They’re alone. It’s their honeymoon – 

What if someone were to find out?

“You’re thinking too hard,” he murmurs, his lips moving along the line of her jaw down to her throat and the throbbing pulse there. 

“I’m not,” she protests faintly, a hot pulse of desire swirling low in her belly. Her hands twitch against his chest. 

“You _are_ ,” he breathes against her skin. His lips trace along the v-neckline of her dress, against her collarbone. 

“What if – what if someone should come in?” she whispers. 

“They won’t,” he says, and his fingers flip under the fluttering hem of her skirt to touch her hose-clad knee. 

Elizabeth hums, flushed with want. Her thighs shift against each other as his fingers make slow circles on her knee. The texture of her pantyhose is friction when she doesn’t need it. 

“You can behave, can’t you?” she asks, a bit imperiously. 

Philip meets her gaze, pondering her. His fingers flex hard against her knee. She tilts her head slightly, holding her breath. Her grip is steady on his lapels. Somehow, this feels like a test. Of what, she isn’t quite certain. 

Finally, he huffs out a laugh, leaning back against the seatback. His palm curves gently over her knee. Color is high on his cheeks but he relaxes under her. 

“I suppose I can. But you can stay right here, can’t you?” he responds.

Elizabeth decides she can. Instead of saying so, she leans in and kisses him, taking the initiative. His lips form a smile under hers, and she answers in turn.

-

Once they’re settled in Broadlands, Elizabeth quickly sends Mrs. MacDonald away for the evening. She’s changed from her traveling dress to her nightdress, and wanders around her borrowed bedroom, admiring the royal blue furnishings, the gentle lamplight, anything to distract her from her busy thoughts. 

She and Philip have the house to themselves for the brief time they’re here, and then they will have Birkhall. When will she ever have this much time _alone_ again in her life?

They might as well take advantage of every moment. 

The heavy connecting door between hers and Philip’s bedroom opens, and he lingers in the doorway, shirt untucked and hair tousled. His feet are bare, which feels shockingly intimate. He looks her over and smiles faintly. 

“More satin?”

“Don’t become used to it,” she says lightly, halting in her pacing. “I’m a practical woman at heart.”

The nightdress was a gift, pale blue satin with a bit of ivory lace alone the v-neckline and the cap sleeves. It’s much more fussy than the simple cotton nightdresses she favors. But this is a special evening. 

Philip pushes off the doorframe with his shoulder, stalking towards her. “I like it.”

Now, she’s nervous. She’s so undressed and he’s still quite dressed. The mechanics of all - _this_ \- she understands quite well. She’s researched what to expect, which Margaret found extremely entertaining and quite pedantic of Elizabeth. But she wants to do well, wants to please – wants to be pleased – and – 

“Darling, you’re thinking again,” Philip says as he comes right to her. His lovely warm large hands come to her face, framing it in his palms. Her skin ripples with warmth. 

“Should I not think?” she asks, slightly breathless. _Already?_ she thinks at herself crossly. 

He smiles down at her, his thumbs caressing the apples of her cheeks. “This is all more about feelings, you know.”

She wets her lips, noting how his gaze follows the tip of her tongue. The memories of their train ride, kissing him until she couldn’t catch her breath, fill the front of her mind. And then, she thinks of their vows, of how hard it was to say them in front of all those people…

“I’m not all good at… feelings,” she says. 

He watches her carefully, his touch gentle. “You know what feels good and what doesn’t. That’s all you need to say,” he says. “You trust me, don’t you?”

Raising her hands to his chest, she plays with the buttons still fastened along his crisp white shirt. “Of course I do.”

“And I trust you. You’ll tell me when to leave off,” he says, grinning. 

Elizabeth inhales and exhales slowly. Her toes curl in her bedroom slippers. Leave off? She doesn’t ever want him to ever stop, not now. She wouldn’t be with him if she did. 

“Well, then. What’s next?” she asks, leaning into his chest. Now, she’s committed. Nerves and all. 

Philip smothers a chuckle into her lips, leaning down to kiss her. She curls her arms up around his shoulders as he pulls her in close, her breasts pressed against his chest. Her skin is warm, and while she’s nervous to be – so close, she also feels that rush of adrenaline, like when he proposed and she could go to her parents and say, _yes, he’s the one I want. No one else. And I’m the one he wants._

They sway and walk back towards the four-poster bed, the dark velvet canopies pulled back. Like everything at Broadlands, the room is luxurious, in a way that she thought Buckingham Palace was, until she saw the difference. She finds Balmoral and Sandringham more comfortable than this level of sumptuousness, but she doesn’t mind it tonight. 

“Elizabeth,” Philip murmurs, his hands falling from her face to her ribs and the curve of her waist, the fullness of her breasts. 

“Hmm?” she asks, a bit shuddery under his touch. 

He peers at her through his tousled hair. “I love you,” he says, quiet and sincere. 

She blinks, taken aback. They weren’t ones for obvious sentiment. But it means something, today. They are married. They are partners, bound by law and God. 

“Oh. Well – I love you, too,” she says, with the hint of a stumble. 

Smiling, he grasps her by the waist and lifts her onto the edge of the bed. She gasps, startled by the movement. 

“Philip!”

“Just sweeping you off your feet, darling,” he murmurs, straightening to a stand before her as he begins to shuck off his shirt. 

She can’t help but stare as he reveals his bare chest to her. He is intensely handsome, a scattering of dark blonde hair curling along his upper chest and sternum, fading to nothing but the sharp line of muscle from a military life. His hands move to his belt and she inhales sharply. 

“I sleep in the nude, by the way,” he says, conversationally, sliding the belt from its loops. 

Elizabeth raises both eyebrows. “What, even when bunking on the ship with your fellow sailors?” 

He laughs. “No, but I’m thrilled to know where your brain goes,” he says. 

A giggle escapes her lips. She kicks off her bedroom slippers and rests her palms on the brocaded bedcover, leaning her weight on them as she watches him strip off his pants. He’s left in just briefs, dark blue. The sight of him bare to her gaze is startling. She wants to fly into his arms and also drink him in from a distance. 

“Second thoughts?” he asks as he watches her watching him.

Mute, she shakes her head. 

“All right, then?”

She nods. 

“Are you ever going to speak again, or have I stunned you into permanent silence?” he teases. 

Arching an eyebrow, she hums. “Just by taking off your shirt? Dear me, that would be an unfortunate sign of my faculties,” she retorts. 

He raises a brow in return, a mischievous smile playing at his mouth. “I suppose I’ll just have to try harder,” he murmurs, coming right up to her. 

Elizabeth’s fingers twitch against the bedcovers. He leans over and kisses her once, twice on the mouth, before his lips follow the line of her throat, the lace along the neckline of her nightdress. His touch is warm against her skin, slightly damp. He touches his tongue to the salt of her skin and she inhales audibly. Slowly, she breathes out and arches into the touch, frissons of desire skimming under her skin and pooling in her belly. Her thighs shift together, seeking friction, seeking touch. 

“You’re lovely,” he murmurs quietly. 

Then, he drops to his knees before her. 

She looks down, blushing so hard she can feel the heat rising off her face. Philip looks up at her, eyes heavy-lidded, color high in his cheeks. His hands skim over her bare calves, under the skirt of her nightdress, and up, pushing fabric up towards her waist as his fingers map the lines of her legs, the bend of her knee. Her skin erupts in gooseflesh, spine tingling. Calluses on his hands catch against her, and there is friction, there is what she seeks. She curls her fingers hard into the bedcovers and bites the inside of her bottom lip as his hands inch further and further up her thighs. 

Soon the flimsy blue satin is pooled at her belly, and Philip has his lips on her right knee, as his hands encircle her thighs. He is watching her, and she is watching him, embarrassed but thrilled simultaneously. 

“Feel good?” he asks, breaking the tense, thick moment. 

She huffs out a breath, and nods. 

A smile flickers across his face. Then, his fingers slide up over her hips and curl into the waistband of her knickers. As he pulls down, she lifts her hips to aid him, trembling just enough for him to take note. His gaze remains on hers, and despite her blush, she’s glad. He’s looking to her, focused on her reaction, even as he drags her knickers down her calves and off her body. The care in it – she loves him all over again for it. 

The room’s warm air curls between her thighs, highlighting how aroused she is. She shivers, toes curling against each other. She wants to pull him up to use him as a shield, to hide how badly she wants – something. Him. This. 

“Philip – I – “

“I know, darling,” he murmurs. His voice is deep, hoarse. She’s never heard it quite like this. Will he sound like this in the mornings? “Christ – “

His mouth moves against the inside of her thigh as his fingers slide and stroke between her legs. He scrapes his teeth against soft tender skin and she jolts where she sits, muscles twitching as his fingertips play against damp curls, finding where she will moan, where she will sigh, where she curls in on herself. Whimpering, she tries to keep her eyes open but the sensation is overwhelming. It’s never felt like this, to have another person so focused on her. 

Philip murmurs nonsense against the skin of her inner thighs as he strokes her, a callused thumb dancing lightly at her clit before retreating. She moans softly, desire uncoiling through her, leaving a streaky sense of satisfaction. She wants something – something more – 

“Please,” she whispers, voice breathy. 

All he does is hum again. But she can feel the brush of his hair at the join of her hip and thigh and she shudders. He can’t – will he - ?

Suddenly one of his strong hands has her thighs spread at the edge of the bed, and she opens her eyes just to find him watching her from between her knees. 

“Yes?” he asks, voice a low hum against her skin. 

Elizabeth, trembling with anticipation, nods. 

Her husband mouths along the join of hip and thigh as his fingers stroke. One finger slides into welcome slickness and she moans softly, her hips rising to meet the touch. One of her hands leaves the bed to slide into his hair, her fingers tangling and her palm curving to the shape of him. 

When the shock of his mouth between her thighs, at the core of her, arrives, she cries out with the sensation, a rush of blood to the head. There’s nothing to help the rock of her hips as he explores her with lips and tongue. She arches and curves around him, her thighs tightening reflexively. The sounds are like hell and heaven, she thinks through the haze of desire. She can feel the vibration of his moans against her slick flesh, and that rachets up the pleasure twining through her veins. 

His tongue curls at her clit and she moans again, low and sweet from her very middle. Pleasure shudders through her and she’s in love, in love with the power and the feel of him here, between her legs, melded into her life. A second finger slides inside her to join the first, curving in their rhythmic press and retreat, and her grip in his hair tightens. She’s a coil ready to spring, a horse at the starting gate – just a bit more, a bit more – 

When she comes, she does so moaning his name, trembling and dappled with sweat. Her nipples peak against the soft fabric of her gown and she whimpers as he strokes her, his mouth moving to her hip. His lips are damp against her hot skin – from _her_ , she realizes with a blush. Breathing off-kilter, she shudders, stroking her fingers through his hair, clutching at his bare shoulders. 

“Philip,” she whispers, when she regains sense. She opens her eyes and he’s there, face ruddy, his eyes bright with need and want. All of him is a tousled mess, as he leans back, still on his knees before her. His hands skim over her thighs, soothing her. 

“Good?” he asks hoarsely. 

In answer, she reaches down and tugs on his shoulders, urging him up. Together they shift up the bed towards the headboard, and she touches every part of him she can as he pulls up her nightdress over her waist and bosom. They are a heated mess of limbs, tangling as they disrobe. Patience and fortitude is dispensed with. Kicking down the bedcovers, she sits up against the pillows, naked, as he shimmies out of his briefs and tosses them aside, kneeling up before her. Her eyes go to the thick ruddiness of his erection, and she wets her lips on instinct. 

“Elizabeth, Christ – “ he mutters, crawling over her. He slides up her body, his eyes dark. Leaning over, he brushes his mouth quickly over the nearest pillowcase before kissing her, deep and wet and full of want. 

Shivering, she slides her hands through his hair and down the taut line of his back, scraping her nails lightly down the muscled skin. Her thighs part and cradle at his hips and she can feel the press of his erection, warm and hard. He keeps his weight off of her with an elbow on the bed but his other hand traces the line of her body, shaping the full curve of her breast, thumbing at her nipple as they kiss until breathless. She trembles beneath him, arching into him and digging her nails into the hard muscle at his back. 

“Philip – “ she gasps as his lips leave hers to kiss and mouth at her jaw, her earlobe. 

He lifts himself off her for a moment, tilting his head. “Yes?”

She blinks up at him, breathless and damp and longing. “Please – “

A small smirk curls the corner of his mouth. “I do like hearing that out of your mouth,” he murmurs, reaching down with his free hand to lift her thigh against his hip. “Say it again.”

“Philip!” she says, the sharpness melting into a whimper as his cock presses right against her aroused flesh. 

“Ready, darling?” he whispers against her ear, hot and dark. 

She shivers and clutches him tightly, fingers pressing into the skin and muscle at his ribs. He leverages up to his knees, looking like a wild man, hair tousled from her demanding hands and skin flushed. Rising up on her elbows, she bends her knees and plants her feet on the bed when he taps her thighs and guides them to do so. He takes his cock in hand and leans over her once more, pressed so close, she wonders if this is what they mean by _one flesh_. 

When he enters her, it’s slow, and she leans back on the bed, arching her hips into his instinctively. Philip bows over her, breathing harsh and low as he guides himself in. She shudders with the sensation of fullness, the stretch of him. As she wraps her arms around him, clutching at his shoulders, she finds the taut line of his jaw with her lips and follows it, kissing the salt from his warm skin. All of her is primed, ready for the next great fall. 

Philip moves within her, murmuring and groaning. Sometimes she hears her name, but it is mostly nonsense. Abruptly, his hand steals between their bellies, splaying against her lower belly as his long clever fingers find her clit. She moans at the sensation, mimicking the press and retreat of his hips against hers. It’s a slow and fraught dance, an echo of the years since the war, since she knew at Windsor Castle when she was seventeen that she loved him, when she fought her family for him. Tension builds as the urgency does, and her hands stroke over his back, encouraging him onwards. 

She’s just at the edge of another climax when his breathing changes, his focus narrows. He leans down for a kiss as he thrusts inside her once, twice more. He comes with an exclamation against her lips, his muscles trembling under and around her. Panting against her mouth, he hovers on one elbow above her, pupils blown wide in his bright eyes. 

“Elizabeth,” he whispers. 

His fingers still curl at her clit, and when she shifts and whimpers, just on the precipice, he leans down and kisses along the curve of her breast, rubbing just right and grazing his teeth along the plush rise of her bosom. The combination hits just right, and she shudders under him, clenching where he still fills her. She rises up and then rests heavily against the bed, damp with sweat and warm everywhere, her hands full of her husband. 

“Christ,” he murmurs hoarsely after a moment. Gently, he withdraws from her, and she feels it, the faint stretch remaining. 

“Indeed,” she says at last, still breathing laboriously. 

For a spell, they are quiet, catching their breath and allowing their skin to cool, their bodies to settle. Elizabeth turns her head to watch him, the long golden lines of him in her bed. This is her husband, her partner. She will have him to face every challenge with. It was a fight to win him, but they won. 

“Are you speechless?” she asks, breaking the peace and quiet. 

Philip’s laugh is low, from his belly. He turns his head and meets her eyes with a gentle smile. “Are you all right?” he asks in return. 

She nods, rising up on an elbow to kiss him softly. “Yes. Thank you. All – all good feelings,” she says with a faint blush. 

He strokes a hand over her shoulder and arm, smiling. “Good.”

After a moment, she slides out of bed and over to the washroom. When she returns, tidied and still naked, she goes to retrieve her discarded nightdress. 

“What are you doing?” he asks from the bed, where he’s propped up against the headboard with the sheets loose around his hips. 

Elizabeth raises her eyebrows and holds the satin to her bare bosom. “Dressing for bed?”

At that, Philip smiles his most wicked grin. “You can’t imagine we’ll be doing much sleeping, darling.”

“Unlike you, I do not go to bed nude,” she retorts. “Whether I am asleep or not.”

“That thing is lovely but is too bloody long,” he protests, hands resting on his stomach.

She purses her lips, and looks to the floor. With a small sound of triumph, she drops the nightdress and picks up his white button-down shirt. As she slides it over her body and does up the bottom buttons, she glances at him. 

Philip’s gaze is fixed on her, alert and hot. Wetting her lips, she wanders back over to the bed and settles in, cuffing the too-long sleeves back over her wrists. 

“Is this an acceptable compromise?” she asks lightly. 

In answer, Philip reaches for her and pulls her on top of him. Her startled laugh is swallowed by his fervent kiss and she sighs, eyes falling shut as his hands traverse her body encased in his clothes. 

She hopes they will always be as happy as they are right now. A pipe dream, surely. But she knows she’s picked the right partner for the life she wants and will have. 

-


End file.
